


waving through a window

by HelmetParty



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Backstory, Emotionally Repressed, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Organized Crime, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Songfic (kind of)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 09:21:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18427667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelmetParty/pseuds/HelmetParty
Summary: When you're falling in a forest, and there's nobody around, do you ever really crash, or even make a sound?David King is a violent, emotionally repressed brute. When he's suddenly thrust into a hellish world full of people just as lost as him, will he find a way to escape, or succumb to his fate?





	waving through a window

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and desc from "Waving Through a Window" from Dear Evan Hansen. Also, its 4AM and this was not proofread at all, but it was something I had to get out of my system because I have a knack for never finishing things that I begin to write and I desperately want to write this. Expect slow updates, and I will not update this at all until I finish my other fic which only has a single chapter left so it shouldn't be too long. Thanks for reading. Love u.

David had grown up fighting to be seen. He clamored to be good enough, bad enough, nice enough, mean enough; he just wanted to be  _ enough.  _ His parents, who were wealthy at the very least, didn’t give him what he needed. His father, a violent drunk, his mother an uncaring and controlling woman, lived as if they weren’t even married. They put on a face to the school and to the public, but at home, it was like they didn’t even know each other. It was off putting. They came to David’s award ceremonies back in grade school, came to the  _ Oliver  _ production he had been in, but that was the only time he could say they looked proud to be his parents.

As soon as it was just them, they acted like he wasn’t even there.

So he acted out. He had grown up watching his father’s anger swell and boil, so he took after that. He got angry. He got in fights at the tiniest things. His teachers called him violent, his friends no longer wanted to be around him. It became a pillar of his personality growing up that rage was just part of the packaged deal. However, David’s temper didn’t stop just at his peers, elders and enemies; it was, as he grew older, directed at his family. He despised his mother, hated his father. Both of them were evil people in his head, but even so, he couldn’t bring himself to truly confront that. He internalized his weakness; he couldn’t tell you why he hated his mother for the most part, in fact he would likely tell you it was just because he hated everyone, but it was a shallow shield. He hated her for not protecting him from the man he called father at one point. 

But family was important. He was important to them, he convinced himself of it, and fought any hints of anything otherwise. 

He stopped caring about school and mostly gave up. Getting banned from the rugby league was the last straw. He dropped out and had to find other ways to throw away his pent-up rage. He yearned to be hit and beat, he wanted to prove that he could take it, that he wasn’t weak, that he wasn’t fragile. Pubs and bars were a good start. He would drink, using his family’s money to keep himself afloat in a small apartment. His parents didn’t care. They had enough money that David’s withdrawals went mostly unnoticed. Besides, they were just happy he wasn’t at home anymore. 

David’s life had been boiled down to a single process - drink, fight, and start all over again tomorrow. 

As much as he loved it, it wasn’t fulfilling. He won most of his fights, and the ones he didn’t he couldn’t get out of his mind. No matter what, either way, win or lose, it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t filling. He was left hungry.

He took up jobs to fill that gap. “Debt collecting”, he called it. Threatening people who didn’t pay up. He didn’t ask questions, he just drove to wherever he needed to, and beat them until they gave up the money. 

“Should be easy for ya. Jus’ out that-a-ways, real freak in the woods. Got a gang of goons, but he don’t know you’re comin’.”

David didn’t ask questions. He drove in his old, rusty truck out the directions he was given. It was far to say the least, but he enjoyed a drive. Plus, he always loved road trips. Good time to smoke and blast music. The drive was around nineteen hours, one of the longer trips he had taken, but it was always fun. 

His first mistake was not breaking the trip.

Instead of spending the night in a motel, or even just stopping to sleep in his car, he drove the entire time. The only times he stopped we’re to piss and once or twice to eat or grab a drink. 

That was his second mistake.

He didn’t stop drinking. He wasn’t drunk, but it was best to be as sober as possible when going about these things. ‘ _ Jus’ child’s play _ ’ he told himself. He knew the man in question; a little freak he was indeed. A wacko who believed in just the craziest conspiracy theories, selling drugs amongst his little entourage of other freaks. But, even so, he wasn’t to be messed with. He did indeed have goons, men who were willing to die for their stupid little circle of maniacs. 

But, like he was told; they didn’t know he was coming.

His third mistake was arriving at night. 

He looks to his phone, which barely had reception out in the farmlands. In the distance, there is a forest, trees tall and black in the nighttime darkness. He was there, his GPS promised him. He squinted from the windows and could barely make out a little house off in the distance. There was no driveway, but there were visible tire marks on the muddy grass. He took that as a greenlight. He turns off his headlights and turns into the yard. As he drove closer, slow and as quiet as possible, he noticed all of the lights were off. Maybe he wasn’t even home, but if that was the case, it would be a good opportunity to set up a little trap for him. Those were always fun. 

He parks his car and gets out. He carries his gun on his hand as he silently steps through the wet mud, making his way to the backdoor. Unlocked. He grins to himself, hoping to catch the weirdo in his sleep. He could practically see his grody face shaking with fear now.

As he steps into the house, something tells him to be weary. His senses are heightened, his ears perked and listening readily for any sound that could tell him he had been found. The cold piece of steel in his hands gave him comfort despite his inner senses telling him otherwise. This wouldn’t be the first time he had to shoot, nor would it likely be the last.

He turns the corner into the kitchen and suddenly he becomes readily aware of the silence. It was quiet, too quiet. Not even a clock ticked, no heater hummed, no light emanated his way. It was both too hushed, and much too dark.

There is a sudden set of bangs and before he knew it, he was on the floor with a gasp. The uneasy silence is broken by loud clamoring, coupled with a bright light being shined in his face. 

“Gimme the fuckin’ gun.”

Instantly David began to swing. He didn’t know what the hell he was swinging at, but he was swingin’. His fists hit flesh but right away he is shoved back to the cold floor. The gun from his hands is suddenly gone, and the voices of multiple men fill his ears. There is laughter and some talking but he’s too pissed to hear it. He struggles and kicks about, being hit down every time he attempted to stand or move. 

“Fuck off wriggling, you right cunt,” one of the voices hiss at him. The others seemingly laugh.

“Fuck you! Fuck you,” David repeats, his eyes growing used to the bright light, able to take in a few faces.

“He really did come all this way.”

“Told you he would. Fucker is crazy.”

“Wha’d we do with him?”

They’re talking but it doesn’t click in his head. “Wha’ the fuck are you fucks whisperin’ about?!”, he screams, a hefty kick hitting his jaw. It silences him for a moment.

“You been makin’ problems back home, mate, and I got debt that needs repaid. Get it now?”

_ Then  _ it clicks.

“You fucking cunts. You  _ fucking cunts _ !” his rage knows no words. The fire breeding beneath his skin writhes and swells, his insides hot and contorted into pure fury. He trusted, and he was set up. It all felt like a badly written film, so obvious in nature, one would be stupid to miss it.

And he did. He missed the cues, because he  _ trusted _ .

His situation becomes painfully aware as they mutter about what to do with him, where to bury the body. One of the men suggest fire, and under any other circumstance he would say that would be a fitting death for him, but not now. Not to these weak freaks.

David, in one swift motion, grabs the leg of the man closest to his head and pulls him down. He slips and falls backwards, and as the other men scramble to attack, it’s too late. He flips himself over, crawling forward with as much speed as he could muster to grab the gun that was taken from him. Someone steps on his legs but it doesn’t matter, enough distance had been closed that he could reach the weapon. However, the man holds to it steadfast, and fires a shot; it grazes his cheek, and for that he was thankful. David slams the man’s hands back, hitting himself with the gun, which loosens his grip enough for David to be able to take it from his hands. He fires at the man who had held it, shooting him directly in the head, a great splatter of blood and brains covering the floor. He goes to shoot whoever was holding his legs, but was met with a swift punch to the face and a pair of hands that reached for his pistol. He fires a shot on a whim, and it pierces the man’s shoulder. He falls back in pain, groaning as blood poured from his arm, giving David enough time to stand.

He fires a second shot at him, this time, it hits its mark. He doesn’t dwell on it. He turns and aims at the last man in the room, a shorter man, one he recognized as his original target. He hesitates, holding the gun aimed perfectly between his eyes, a bloody smile making its way across his face. 

“An’ when you get ta’ hell, save a seat for our good ol’ friend back home.”

Without warning, just as he goes to pull the trigger, a sharp rope pulls itself around his neck. The bullet goes off but instead hits the wall, the sound of the glass of a painting shattering from the impact. The man in front of him quickly closes the gap between them, going to kick at David’s stomach and groin, hands trying to remove the gun from his grasp. David chokes on the rope, its prickly texture digging into his skin, cutting of his air. He elbowed at the man on his back, and instead of fighting the pressure on his neck, used it to his advantage. He sent his head flying back with as much force as he could muster, repeadly headbutting his assaliant. He feels the man’s blood on the back of his shaved head, and after multiple hits, he finally falls to the ground. David, now bloody with not only the blood of the men but of himself as well, turns and shoots the man that had fallen. He instantly turns to the  _ actual  _ final man.

“What I said before still stands, cunt,” he heaves through coagulated blood which poured from his mouth and nose. “Fuck off and die.” 

He pulls the trigger, but it clicks, no shot fired. Empty.

It didn’t matter. Through stumbling apologies and pleads, David stikes the man over the head with the pistol, instantly knocking him out to the floor in a pool of blood.

He stands there, breath hitched and body aching, covered in blood. The floor is a puddle of guts and gore, bodies fresh, eyes stapled open and staring into nothingness. He stands still, not moving for a few moments, the silence of the now crime scene somehow liberating. He feels completely numb, but it’s short lived. 

Fuming lividity washed over him. He had to get home before this reached his old  _ ‘friend’ _ . 

He stumbles outside of the house. His body throbbed with pain, his legs almost unable to carry him to the car. He forced himself into the vehicle, throwing the gun into the glove compartment, taking out a bottle of whiskey in its place. He steered the car with his left hand, right opening the bottle and putting it to his lips, taking liberal swigs of the fluid that was just about as hot as he felt.

He drives and he drives. His phone had no reception, so he just picked the direction he thought he had come from but it was beginning to blur. The pain’s harsh edges softened but so did his thoughts, his vision becoming clouded with a shroud of fog. He wiped at his eyes absently, but even so the fog only grew. Its foul yellow tint filled his vision and suddenly the pain washed away completely, along with his consciousness. 

His last feeling is one of resentment and violence, his last vision was that of the woods growing closer and closer.


End file.
